Night Flights
by EchoMoonHuntress
Summary: this is a bad idea, he decides, but his heart tells him to go along with it. - Gerome.


**night flights**

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When Gerome was a kid—because _all_ moody young adults were once little kids with stars in their eyes and a cheery smile—Cherche always loved flying with him and Minerva, her arms wrapped around his chest. Her pink eyes were never focused on him, though, when Gerome would twist to look up at her face. They were always looking up, at the clouds and the sky, as if she always wanted to fly higher.

"The sky's the limit," she'd always tell Gerome, when she would return back from the war. "But I have to respect the boundary now."

She'd always swoop down from the sky, after a battle; she'd be sweaty and messy and tired, but she'd always _come back_.

Until she didn't, when Gerome waited for hours and hours and hours until the sun fell and nighttime stretched across the sky, and Cherche never arrived.

Minerva did, though, and Gerome ran to her, wondering where his mother was, where his _father_ was (because Vaike normally got home around this time or so, he was always later than Cherche but he always _got_ home).

Minerva was wailing when he reached her; the anguished cry from her mouth did not sound wyvern-like at all, it sounded so raw and full of grief that it almost sounded human and—

—that's when Gerome knew.

He curled up against Minerva, and it didn't take long for the tears to start to fall.

Minerva screamed again, and it was so loud he could feel her pain, and it _hurt_ , in every inch of his body, while he cried and cried and cried, hurt until his own scream tore from his lips.

Months later, those screams still haunt Gerome.

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He doesn't know whether to laugh, scream, or cry when he finds out Chrom is dead.

This does shock him, though, to the very core; Gerome pushes his mask up (he's been wearing one ever since his mother's death), and is very thankful the mask hides his expression.

Lucina stands, almost numbly, at the spot where the messenger delivered the news; Inigo places a hand on his sister's shoulder but she shrugs it off, barely moving. Gerome knows he should say something, anything, to her, to Inigo, but before he can, Lucina whirls around and walks away from the group. She passes him as she walks by; Gerome had thought she was crying, and he's surprised to see her face is just stony, almost angry.

Nah, the little dragon girl, makes a small strangling sound; when Gerome looks down to look at her, she says, "We…we all thought Chrom was invincible."

Gerome closes his eyes. He thought that too, once upon a time; invincible was an adjective, though, for the word that Gerome thought Chrom once was. _Leader_ is the first word that comes to mind, to describe Chrom; leaders are supposed to never let you down, they're the ones you count on that will never lose. When they die, it's like the world has crumpled in on itself; it feels like there is no hope left.

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Gerome is no tactician, but no one needs to be a tactician to know that they're pretty much fucked.

Kjelle paces back and forth; she can't lose, she can't take defeat for an answer unless it's a fair fight, and the war has never been fair from the very start. She snaps at anyone that gets close to her, so Gerome minds his distance and just watches her, whirl her feet from one edge of camp to the other. It makes him dizzy, so he stands up and walks, all the way back to the ruins of what he used to call home.

Minerva is waiting there; her wings are stretched out, legs poised in a way that tells Gerome she wants to take to the sky. She's been grounded since Cherche's death; he hates doing this to her, but he lost his mother to the sky and he doesn't want to lose her wyvern either.

He is terrified of the sky; it's so big and vast. His hands get clammy just thinking about it, so he strokes Minerva's nose and waits for his heartbeat to stop accelerating so fast. Minerva growls in her throat, a sign of affection, but Gerome does not miss the way her neck cranes upwards, looking longingly at the big blue sky.

"I don't understand," he murmurs to the wyvern. "We lost Cherche to the sky. Why are you so eager to return to it?"

Minerva stares with her big yellow eyes, and blows hot air in his face as a response.

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When Gerome gets back to camp, the first thing he sees is Lucina. Her eyes are closed, her hands are clasped together and her lips are twitching, words spilling out of her mouth that he cannot hear. When she finishes, she stands up and dusts herself off; her eyes grow wide when she sees Gerome.

"Hey," she says. "I didn't know you were watching."

"What are you doing?"

She smiles, a bit sadly. "Praying."

 _Why would you pray, when no god will listen to you?_ Gerome bites his tongue to refrain from saying that; it would seem rude and uncaring. He looks at his boots, and Lucina shifts on her weight.

"I know it's not really ideal," she says. "And maybe it's stupid."

"I never said it was stupid."

"You were thinking it, weren't you?"

She's got him beat; she knows she does. Gerome doesn't say anything, so Lucina presses onwards.

"But I'm fresh out of ideas, did you know that, Gerome?" her voice is soft and almost delicate; he hates it. "Nah told me she prays to Naga when she is terrified. Brady's father did too, when he was alive."

Silence passes by, running through Gerome's hair and through treetops; Lucina waits for his response, his _opinion_ on the thought. But they never really mattered, did they? Gerome can tell her how he feels, what he thinks they can do, but it doesn't matter, because their fate has been written and it can't be changed.

He can't tell her this, though. That would seem cruel, especially with the loss of her father weighing heavily on her.

So instead, he fastens his hands on Minerva's reins and says, "Double the prayers for me."

Lucina gives him another sad smile, and almost laughs, but it is not a pretty sound.

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He can't sleep that night. No matter how much he tosses and turns, all he sees is his mother, with blank white eyes and her axe painted red at the edges. It's scary, scary enough to make Gerome wake up with sweat pouring down his face and his breathing coming up in shallow gasps.

Falling back asleep is pointless; the blank Cherche is waiting for him in his dreams, so Gerome gets up, walks across camp to where Minerva sleeps. The wyvern lifts her head up, eyes half-open; Gerome runs his fingers over her glossy scales and tries to focus on his heartbeat.

"Night flights," he can see Cherche saying. "Whenever you were getting antsy as a little baby, Gerome, I would fly with you on Minerva and you'd instantly fall asleep."

Gerome wonders, just then, how much he has changed since Cherche's death.

Minerva growls softly, nudges her face against Gerome's neck; he does not laugh, but his lips lift upwards. It's not exactly a smile, either. "Hey, girl," he whispers. "Do you want to go for a night flight?"

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It doesn't come naturally to him, not right away. His legs are shaking and his hands sweat; Gerome is suddenly very glad he's wearing gloves, for more grip.

When Minerva takes off, she tries to go slow and gentle for her master; Gerome appreciates it, but his hands fumble clumsily with the reins and he is launched forward, the reins hanging limply from Minerva's neck and his hands thrown around her scales. His heartbeat does not slow down.

Once they're up in the sky, at a safe level, Gerome reaches for the reins again, feeling somewhat confident; he slides back into the seat, and listens to the flap of Minerva's wings. It has a steady rhythm to it, the soft whoosh as they go down and up, down and up. (Not up and down; that's different.)

Gerome does not dare look at the ground; he knows he would see images of himself falling, relaying his mother's fall to her almost-death, and he really does not want to see that. Instead, he looks _up_ , at the never-ending sky and the stars sprinkled, like a canvas, on top of it. The moon glows white in the sky; it's not a particularly _bright_ light but Gerome suddenly wants to—wants to touch it, almost. Fly as high as he possibly can, see if he can reach it.

He kind of understands his mother's fixation on flights, now. He doesn't really blame the sky as much. (Okay, that might be a lie, but Gerome forgets his hatred for the sky, just right now.)

When Minerva lands, Gerome slides off of her, carefully. The sun is rising; he can't see it but he can see the darkish clouds growing gray, almost silver, and that's the sign.

He realizes he has stopped shaking.

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Nah tugs at a braid; she is dancing on her feet, desperately trying to cover her excitement with something else. "We're going back in time," she says. "To, you know. When our parents were alive."

Gerome stops; air escapes from his lungs and all he can focus is on is trying to _breathe_ , in and out.

"You'll see Cherche," Nah clarifies, and his mother comes to mind; her eyes are closed and her mouth is open in a laugh. Gerome has missed her so, so, much, but he doesn't want to see her. Not like this.

 _This is a bad idea,_ his brain warns. _This is a very bad idea._

Meddling with time is not something you do. Gerome knows that; it's dangerous, something could go wrong, you might as well just accept your fate and stay here. It's the smartest choice, anyways.

Gerome knows that this plan is bad, but—

—Gerome still _wants_.

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The noise is all too much to handle; everyone is excited at the prospect of seeing their parents again, and their voices rise higher and higher in volume. Gerome's ears have always been sensitive, as are Minerva's, so he hops on her back and flies. This time, it's not so rocky.

They land at a clearing, far away from any noises, any distractions; _this_ is what Gerome needs, some silence to work out his thoughts.

He's not going back. That's what he's telling himself, but he wants to see his father again, hear his outrageous laugh; he wants to see his mother again, with her calm smile and soft ways with animals. He wants them so, so, badly, but—

Vaike and Cherche are not _the_ Vaike and Cherche that he's grown up with. Going back in time means they will be younger; they will not be the loving, mature parents Gerome loves with all his heart.

Minerva lifts her head up, nudges her nose against him as if she can read his thoughts. Gerome strokes her scales, carefully.

"Minerva," he asks, "do you ever miss Cherche?"

Minerva tosses her head, a croak escaping from her throat. Gerome blinks behind his mask, fast.

"I miss her," he says. "I miss her so damn much."

Minerva draws a big wing towards him, brings the boy closer to the wyvern. She can't speak, but Gerome hears her say _Hush now, little one._

Gerome allows one little laugh to escape him, but it sounds more like a cry of agony.

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"Skulking around camp again, being creepy?" Severa asks snidely, when Gerome returns; she puts an emphasis on the 'creepy'. "Well, while you were gone, you missed Cynthia doing Lucina's hair."

Gerome wants to say, _I think I can live with that,_ but he's too tired to say so and instead gives a noncommittal grunt.

Severa's mouth turns upside down. "Oh, so now you're just mute now, eh? _Wow_ , Gerome. You just seem to be getting old or something, more serious. Inigo was-"

"Severa," Laurent cuts in; Gerome did not see him right away, but the mage is sitting on a camp log, watching the flames crackle and dance. "Give it a rest."

Severa harrumphs, tosses a dark pigtail over her shoulder, and stomps away. Both of the boys watch her go, and then Laurent says quietly, "Are you traveling back?"

The _no_ gets lodged in Gerome's throat. "I don't know," he replies, and Laurent sighs.

"I can understand why you would not wish to accompany us. It seems…selfish, absurd. Crazy, even."

Gerome stays quiet. He likes Laurent, he does, but the boy can read him like an open book, when he tries to stay secretive and locked away.

Laurent studies him, smiles a bit. "However, if you would wish to come back…we could possibly prevent certain incidents from happening."

"You can't." The reply comes out of Gerome's mouth before he can stop himself. Laurent merely raises an eyebrow.

"How so?"

Gerome shifts on one foot. "It's…bad. Defies nature and everything. Logic. I thought _you_ would get this; you're the one who's based around logic and variables."

Laurent's smile is almost rueful now. "I've come to terms that logic does not always solve everything."

There is nothing to say to this. Laurent always wins.

The mage stands up and takes off his glasses and rubs them clean. He looks older by the firelight. "Just keep this in mind," he says. And then he lumbers back to his tent, and the little lantern in his tent flickers out.

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Gerome runs into Lucina, the day before they're supposed to go; Gerome does a double-take, because _he doesn't recognize her_.

"You cut your hair," he observes, and Lucina shakes her head.

"It's still long, Cynthia just tied it back for me. Girl stuff." She flashes a smile, but the fear is still evident in her eyes, her face.

"Owain helped me come up with a name," she says. "He suggested many…interesting names, but I eventually settled on 'Marth'."

"Like your ancestor."

"You're observant," Lucina teases, and Gerome rolls his eyes. She clears her throat, becomes solemn again.

"I'm…scared, to be honest. It's big job, trying to change fate."

See, Lucina at least _understands_ ; she gets that their fate has been sealed, the choices done and made. But unlike Gerome, she wants to change fate; she wants to go back and correct certain mistakes that haven't happened yet in the time where they are going.

She looks so lost, so _confused_. There are tears in her eyes, and it's not really the face of a hero, of someone going back in time to save the world.

(He's been spending too much time listening to Cynthia, Gerome decides.)

"Here," he says, and before he realizes what he's doing he's unfastening his mask, grabbing her wrist and turning her palm up, pushing it in her hands. His face feels bare, exposed without it, but Gerome—Gerome tries to tell himself he doesn't mind it.

Lucina looks at it, carefully. When she looks up, her eyes sparkle but they're curious as well. "What…what is this for?"

Gerome shrugs. "You might need to conceal your identity at some point."

She pushes the mask up on her face, and offers a tiny smile at him in gratitude. "Thank you."

He grunts in response, but he knows she understands.

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"Are you coming?"

Lucina is prepared and ready the next day, Falchion unsheathed and resting in her hands. The portal shimmers in front of them, hues of greens and blues dancing like water. Gerome hasn't made up his mind yet, and he scolds himself for being indecisive.

"Maybe," he replies, and Lucina nods.

"Well," she says, "not trying to persuade you or anything, but I'd really like it if you'd come along. If you don't want to though, I understand."

And then she breaks into a run, and disappears into the portal; Gerome looks at it for a long beat, before Minerva nudges his shoulder and draws his attention away.

"Okay," he says, "I'll fly with you."  
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They fly for what feels like eternity; Gerome knows he's getting lost, he might not ever reach the portal again, but that's okay. _Somewhat_.

He pulls on the reins, forces Minerva down on a cliffside just in time to see the sun rise. For the first time in ages, it breaks through the clouds, like a bird peeking through a window. It's not really pretty, though, it's just a pale, pale yellow ball, almost orange; it looks like a ball of fire.

The clouds have not broken apart yet, but from small little glimpses Gerome can tell the sky is orange, pink, crimson. They stain the clouds with this color, a beautiful portrait of reddish-pink clouds, and the earth is bathed in this fiery glow.

Gerome breathes in, and feels a smile stretch across his face. "Well would you look at that," he murmurs. "The world is on fire."


End file.
